


Country Boy Fitz

by stammed_cleams



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast), the adventure zone graduation - Fandom
Genre: Difficult discussions, Friendship, Gen, Insecurity, Poverty, fitzroy headcanon, fitzroy is from a poor family and feels bad about it, mentions of heavy drinking cw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25024393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammed_cleams/pseuds/stammed_cleams
Summary: When Fitzroy gets drunk at a party, he slips into the accent he had long before he entered Knight School. While most of the party-goers find it charming, Argo fears that it will ruin both Fitzroy's reputation, and his self esteem.
Relationships: Argo Keene & Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94





	1. Fitzroy's Slip Up

**Author's Note:**

> whats up guys!!! so i seem to have gotten into taz g again. theyre just good boys!! i have,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, so many wips and i am sorry but if you could all just do me the wonderful favor of Not Getting Your Hopes Up that would be great.
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment!! I don't bite, y'all!!

It was later confirmed that the punch was spiked with vodka, rather than gingerly flavored with rum. As it turned out that was the source of most of their problems. 

The party was one of the biggest that the school had ever seen. Everybody who was anybody was there, and all but the most trustworthy designated drivers were beginning to get tipsy at least. The massive field was lit by massive lights on telephone poles, the ground was covered in kegs and snack tables and colored lights, and music was blasting loud enough to make anyone dizzy. People were falling over and dancing on tables. 

Argo had had one drink - but he was used to booze from his life as a privateer, so whatever lightheadedness he felt he did not wear on his face. He tasted the vodka as soon as he’d taken a sip, and hadn’t planned for a hangover in the morning - and besides, who was to say whether he’d be charged for what he drank or not? Because of this collection of factors, he decided to remain mostly sober, keeping an eye on the thundermen as opposed to partying too hard himself. He had just been having a “conversation” with Rhodes for the past half hour - though that was a loose word for it. He hadn’t said anything but “mhm” or “yeah” for as long as she’d been talking, spitting little bits of punch into his face as she gesticulated wildly, talking about the pretention of heroes and their ‘fucking stupid-ass god complex’. Seeing his large Firbolg friend sitting down in a different part of the field felt like an excellent reason to leave. 

“Well, I uh… I gotta go check on the Firbolg, make sure he hasn’t overdone it!” he shouted over the music. 

“Sounds cool man, keep it tight!” Rhodes shouted after him, and downed another half of her cup of punch. 

Argo headed over to the Firbolg, who was currently sitting down in the grass sort of like a bear would, with his legs out in front of him and his head down. Just as Argo began to worry however, he got close enough to see that he was smiling. He plopped down beside him, and gave him a hearty pat on the back.

“How you doing, lad? Getting a little in your cups there?”

The Firbolg let out a goofy, albeit slow chuckle. “I am watching these… bugs… on the ground... And it looks like they also like to party!” He snorted again, and Argo looked over his shoulder to see an inch worm up above the ground wiggling sporadically back and forth. 

“Man, I wouldn’t have pinned you for a giggly drunk,” said Argo, “How much have you had? Guy your size, must have had the whole keg.”

“I went over to the party and they gave to me very, very small drinks. They say ‘whoever is still standing when the Firbolg goes down wins for the night’. But I will not go down!” He put a drunken hand on Argo’s shoulder, and nearly knocked him over, “Argo you must tell them… you must tell them…”  
“Uh huh, tell them what, big guy?”

“I… am not sitting because I have lost this game, I am only sitting to watch the bugs,” he told him, “You must tell them the bugs will dance but they will not drink from the small glasses. But I will have their share!” He seemed to find this very funny, bursting into laughter behind his hand. “You see, this is joke! Bugs do not have a share of punch!”  
“Uh huh. How many of those tiny glasses did those guys give you, exactly?” Argo asked, raising an eyebrow.

The Firbolg shut his eyes for a moment, counting on his fingers. “Is… uh… Seven.”

“You did  _ seven  _ shots?! It’s not even 9 PM!”

“Where I am from we do not… party. They tell me… let us do ‘shots’. I say, what is… ‘shots’. Then they give me very, very small drinks and I say, I am… this is… this drink is too small for me, I am very big. They say I must start with one. I do this. Then I have another. By the time I am feeling this spinning, spinning then I have had five.” He held his hand up, showing five fingers.

“So why’d you take two more!?”

“Rolandus double dog dared me I would not do it!” he exclaimed loudly, “I will not lose my pride!”

Argo raised his eyebrows. “Okay, well, no more ‘small drinks’, because if you pass out, there is no way in Hell Fitzroy and me can carry you home!”

The Firbolg grinned. “Fitzroy has had very much punch,” he said, “He has had so much that his voice has gotten strange.”

Argo shot him a confused look. “What, you mean like he’s slurring his words or something?”  
He shook his head. “I think he was maybe doing impressions. I do not know of who. He sounds, I think, a little bit like his mother. He is over there, telling stories and drinking punch. He is… mm… what did you say… very ‘in his cups’.”  
A deep sense of concern washed over Argo. Before he put all the pieces together, part of him knew what had happened. Oh, this was bad. He patted the Firbolg on the shoulder again and then stood up, thanked him, and walked in the direction he was pointing. There was a massive group of people, many of them doubled over and red faced in laughter. They were gathered in something between a cluster and a circle. Oh _no._

Argo pushed his way in. There was Fitzroy. Had he not known what he knew about him he would have assumed he was possessed. His fake glasses were off and tucked into his pocket - his hair was mussed, his shirt was half-untucked and his cape was askew on his chest. More noticeable than any of that, however, was his  _ voice.  _ The polite, rich in etiquette elven accent had vanished, and now, with wild gestures of the hand that wasn’t holding punch, he was speaking in an accent so low-class that it was, at times, hard to understand him. He sounded like a deep-country farmer, a little pink in the cheeks, laughing and slurring through his story. The rest of the group seemed to be in awe, blinking and rubbing their eyes as if to confirm this was really happening.

“And I am telling you, you’ve never seen a som’bitch so pissed, I tell ya. So this fancy fencing thing goes on, and this guy has had the day to match all days, right, he’s had all this crazy stuff happ’nin to him, and I says to him, I says, ‘I think you’ve got, you know, a little something on your cape’. Referring, of course, to the mustard stain the size of a football. And he goes hot in the face and goes for my guts, I haul ass, and his dinky fencing sword goes  _ straight  _ through the stained glass display in the back of the church, shatt’rin it to bits.”

The group laughed in disbelief, and Rainier snickered, “Seriously?! How did he even do that, aren’t those things bendy?”  
“I- on God!” Fitzroy said, raising a hand, “I ain’t got a dadgum clue how he did it, them things are supposed to break if so much as a ladybug lands on em, but sure enough he’s used his little twizzler to deface the great sun god Hemphastus!” The rest of them roared with laughter. 

Argo looked around anxiously. He could only hope they were laughing  _ with  _ him, as opposed to  _ at  _ him. But he had reached ‘dadgum’ levels of lack of self-restraint, so it was time to intervene. 

“Fitzroy!” he said. He forced himself forward, placed his hands around his shoulders, and began walking along with him out of the crowd. “I think it’s time we get out of here, huh? The Firbolg, I’ll tell you, he’s absolutely blasted, and I think if we stay much longer we’re gonna have the unpleasant duty of dragging him home.”

“We’re going home already? But I’m having a _fantastic_ time!”  
“Yeah, I’ll bet you are,” he muttered, and worked Fitzroy’s arm around his neck, “We gotta get back though, we got class tomorrow.”

Fitzroy scoffed, “Those teachers can wait on me, I- I’m prime student material, I’m student number one! I’m- I’m the reason  _ they  _ come to class.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure.” He walked over to the Firbolg, Fitzroy over his shoulder, “Firbolg, we’re headed home, you coming?”  
He looked up from his bugs. “Yyyes. I will come,” he said. He carefully propped himself up, first onto his knees, then carefully onto his feet. He wobbled there for a moment, looking briefly like a swaying tree that threatened to fall, before stabling himself and stumbling along to follow. “These drinks have begun to make me feel a great illness… in the head,” he confessed.

“Well, bud, you had seven shots, it’ll do that.”

“Fitzroy…” the Firbolg said slowly, and then giggled, “You have drank so much your voice has changed. Is this what happens at the eighth ‘shot’?”

  
“I ‘onno what you’re talking about,” Fitzroy slurred, and it was clear he was already beginning to fall asleep on Argo’s shoulder. He nearly buckled, stopping as Fitzroy abandoned his own weight. 

“Oh…  _ man  _ he’s heavy for a fit guy…” he groaned. 

“Here. I will do this,” The Firbolg said. Somewhat ungracefully he lifted Fitzroy by the waist and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. 

“Alright, just… don’t drop him!” 

“I… will not.” 


	2. A Hard Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the party, the Firbolg and Fitzroy are nightmarishly hungover. Argo has the unpleasant job of reminding Fitzroy what happened last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got nothing to say tonight. im posting this at 11 PM while jamming to a dope saint jude song, just so yall have a visual. "but oh, mr. cleams, you know you dont have to leave a note" i know but i want to say HELLO

As soon as they got home they deposited Fitzroy into bed and let him stay comfortably there. This would be a rough morning, thought Argo. The Firbolg sat on the floor, eyelids looking heavy. It was clear he wouldn’t be far behind Fitzroy. 

Argo, knowing how small his window was, spoke at him sharply. “Firbolg, now, before you go to sleep, I need you to try and remember something for the morning.” 

“Hm… yes?” he asked blearily.

“You know how Fitzroy was sort of… talking funny tonight?”  
He laughed. “Eh… yes. I remember this.”

“I need you to not… bring this up to him tomorrow, alright? The reason why is complicated and nuanced and… really not worth trying to explain to him in your current state, so, it would really be for the best if you just…  _ didn’t  _ talk about the way he acted. Can you do that?”

He thought for too long about it, before saying. “Yyyes. I can… do this.”

“Okay, repeat back to me what I want you to do.”

It seemed to take him several seconds to remember, before he lifted a finger and said, “Do not… tell Fitzroy… that his voice… was funny.”

“That’s right, okay, thank you.”

“I am… going to sleep now.”

“Okay, that sounds good.” Argo patted him on the arm, and let him curl up on the wooden floor. 

Argo went to bed that night considering what he should do. There was no doubt in his mind that Fitzroy would forget what had happened by the morning. Part of him wanted to just not tell him… but no. If he were to find out through his peers making snide jokes about it in the middle of class, it would destroy him. That said, telling him himself didn’t feel much better. No doubt, the Firbolg would say something uneducated on the topic, or misunderstand in some way - not usually a big deal, but Fitzroy would undoubtedly be unreasonably sensitive. Because of that, he concluded, there wasn’t really a way for this to go well. Oddly enough that news was comforting - at least it meant that he didn’t have to blame himself if it went wrong, knowing very well it would regardless. He slept as soundly as he could that night, planning the nuance of his words the morning to come. 

Argo woke up a full hour before the other two, snuck out to the cafeteria, and brought home two very greasy breakfasts for the both of them (as well as a few orange slices for himself to have on the way back). The Firbolg was the first to awake, with dark circles under his eyes. 

“Morning, sunshine!” Argo said cheerfully.

The Firbolg blinked, groaned, and rubbed his eyes. “Please…” he said gently, “Not so loud…”

Argo smirked. “Here,” he said, and placed a plate out before him, “This’ll make you feel a little better.” The Firbolg needed no more coaxing, beginning to gnaw on a strip of bacon. Argo reclined in his bed, “Do you remember how many shots you had last night?”

“What is… shot?”

“Small drinks,” Argo clarified. The Firbolg thought for a good few seconds, before running a hand through his mass of hair.

“I… do not recall,” he said. He buried his head in his hands. “Something has been done to me, Argo. Someone has… cursed me. They have made the sound of my eyes blinking very loud and they have caused a great unease in my entire body…”

“You’re hungover,” Argo told him, “That’s what happens when you drink too much booze at a party.”

The Firbolg looked betrayed. “Why did no one… tell me this while I was doing the drinking?”  
“Well I… guess we sort of figured you knew already.”  
He scowled. “I know almost nothing of this world. Why would you assume… I know this, eh?”

A meek, though once again fancy voice piped up from the taller bed in the room. “Are we yelling? Why are we yelling?” 

“Morning, Fitzroy!” said Argo, watching as he gradually pushed himself up into a sitting position up against the bedframe, wincing and rubbing his eyes. He placed his breakfast at the foot of his bed. “I got you a little something to make you feel better faster. Woke up early.”

Fitzroy groaned, gagging at the image of food and looking away. “Oh, I feel awful…” he groused.

“You are hungover,” the Firbolg said, “This is what happens when you drink too much… booze. Something which nobody thought to tell me… The Firbolg… who, famously, does not know of life outside the forest.” He shot another glare at Argo as he dug into his eggs.

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it. But hey, now you know, right?”  
“Mm…” the Firbolg muttered to himself, and looked back down at his food.

Argo redirected his focus to Fitzroy, turning around and looking at him worriedly. “Do you… remember any of last night?” he asked. 

Fitzroy rubbed his eye. “Um… I remember having a sip of punch… falling off a table… and then… that’s about it! Man, what was in that punch, that must have been some crazy stuff!” He held his head.

With a meek chuckle, Argo looked away. “Yeah…” he said weakly. For the first time in the conversation, Fitzroy stopped rubbing his eyes and looked over at him.

“Why do you ask? I didn’t do anything stupid, did I?”  
“Um… well… not exactly.”

“Look at me, I’m a mess…” Fitzroy said softly to himself, glancing down at his clothes. He adjusted his cape, then patted himself down for his glasses. He withdrew them, and then put them on. “I hope I wasn’t at the party this disheveled, I must have looked like quite the- quite the raving drunkard!” He turned back to Argo, smoothing out his shirt. “Alright so what- what did I do, did I try to smooch someone or… something?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” said Argo, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt, “You actually seemed to be having a pretty good time.”

“Great, so what’s the problem?” he asked, struggling to sit up and have a bite of bacon without gagging. 

The Firbolg, hand to his head, spoke up. “Your voice sounded different because you were drunk,” he said irritably. Argo glared at him. 

“Thank you for that,” he said sharply. 

Fitzroy was smiling slightly, but the rigidity in his stance was clear. “What does he… what does he mean I sounded different? What was I, was I slurring my speech or something, is that what he means?”

Argo winced. Go on, bite the bullet, he told himself. “Well… no,” he said, “You might have sort of… slipped into your… your original accent near the end of the party there. And… you may have done it… in front of a really big group of people and… told them all a story from Knight school like, uh, like that.”

Fitzroy blanched. The smile fell from his face, promptly replaced by a look of horror. “What?” he breathed. 

“... Yeah. B-but, just for a little while, just near the end, and then I got you out of there and we left before anyone else noticed!” Argo assured him.

“Oh, no, oh, no no no, no…” he muttered to himself. His legs curled into his chest and his hands interlocked behind his head, his face buried in his knees. Argo waited, wincing - this was about what he expected, but still, it wasn’t exactly pleasant. He cast a look at the Firbolg, who looked confused, but concerned.

“Fitzroy…” he began, and Argo flinched. He could only hope his question wouldn’t be too tasteless. “Much of last night is gone to us…” he said, “I think perhaps it will be gone to the people who heard this too, eh?”

Argo cast him a grateful look - that actually wasn’t bad, he thought. 

“He- he’s right, you know, everyone at that party was blackout drunk, I’m sure it’ll go unnoticed,” Argo told him. 

Fitzroy vigorously shook his head. “No,” he said, “No it won’t. Because the Firbolg remembers, and look at him, he’s got a hangover the size of… Oh, God…” He swallowed, shutting his eyes, “Modestly, how many people was I talking to?”

Argo grimaced. “Maybe… twelve, thirteen?”  
“Oh, _God…”_ said Fitzroy, and curled even tighter into a ball. “They’re going to tell everyone. I’ll be a laughing stock.”

“You won’t… be a laughing stock, boyo, nobody cares about your accent! Both me and the Firbolg got weirder ways of talking than you and we’re just fine!” 

“No you don’t… _understand_!” he insisted, his voice cracking. The Firbolg winced at his volume, “You don’t understand, my life at this school is _over,_ it’s _finished!”_ _  
_ Argo couldn’t help but smile. “I think that’s… a bit of an overstatement. Really, Fitzroy, it’s no big deal!”  
“No, no, you wouldn’t understand, you don’t know what’s at stake, you don’t know… you don’t know anything!” he swung his legs over the bed. Hands shaking, he fixed his cape, panting as he tucked his shirt properly back into his pants. He was nearly hyperventilating. Argo stood too, and reached for his shoulder.

“Fitzroy, you  _ have  _ to calm down.”

“Don’t  _ touch  _ me!” he breathed, and pulled away. With a flick of his cape he hurried out of the room and slammed the door. 

The Firbolg winced at the sound the door made, and then leaned forward. He stared quizzically at the door, concern in his eyes. Then, he glanced at Argo. He looked pained. Whatever was going on, he understood it. Eventually, the Firbolg broke the pleasant silence. “He is… embarrassed of this?” he asked slowly.

Argo sighed. “Yeah, I suppose he is,” he answered, “That’s sort of why I told you not to bring it up.”

“When… did you say this?”  
“Last night,” Argo said, and turned to him, “You were blasted, I don’t know why I expected you to remember. Don’t worry about it.” 

The Firbolg considered this, with a small hum of approval. “This… voice,” he said thoughtfully, “It… bothers him, yes?”  
“Yes, very much so,” Argo answered, crossing his legs on his bed. “It’s… mm… It’s a bit hard to explain. You know how… out in the world, some people have, you know, a lot of money and things and other people… uh, don’t?”  
The Firbolg nodded knowingly, and pointed a finger. “Yes, income inequality.”

“Oh, so you know about it!” Argo said, with an impressed gesture towards him. The Firbolg nodded again, eyes shut wisely.

“This is the gap between the upper and lower classes which is caused by various privileges assigned at birth, such as the racial background or the wealth of the family.” 

Argo smiled, “Right, right, that’s exactly it! Well… the reason Fitzroy doesn’t care for his accent there… and, obviously don’t, you know, share this around, but… well, he’s from sort of a lower-income family initially and that accent in particular is usually… you know, associated with people of a lower class. As opposed to his usual voice which he puts on so he sounds, you know, a little fancier and higher class…” he rubbed the back of his neck, “And there’s a stigma around these things, being poor and all. I don’t mind much but… what with him having gone to that stuck up Knight school of his it seems to be a real soft spot for him.”  
The Firbolg seemed to think about this for a moment, eyes still squinted from the headache. “Mm, yes…” he eventually understood. “But… you must tell him that there is no shame in this, eh?” He looked to Argo, gesturing with a piece of bacon while he spoke. “He did not choose to be born like this. He has pursued his dreams despite the limitations placed on him by his socioeconomic class. This thing, it is a thing of pride, of honor. He should feel glad for it.”  
“Yeah, that’s the way I see it. I guess Fitzroy’s got a lot of shame around it,” Argo said worriedly. The Firbolg appeared pained about this, looking down at the floor. After a moment, Argo went on, “I think I should follow him, try and talk to him. Someone ought to try and comfort the guy, may as well be a guy who understands not being too well liked because of the amount of gold in your pocket!” He chuckled slightly, but he clearly wasn’t amused.

“Tell him, there is no shame in this,” he instructed, “This voice… this is a noble thing. It is the voice of his ancestors, who I am sure would look at him… favorably.”

Argo nodded solemnly. “I’ll pass it along,” he said. The Firbolg nodded, and Argo headed out the door.


	3. Do You Think I'm Nothing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Argo has a tough talk with Fitzroy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! havent really been as into this fandom lately but this chapters just been Sitting Here so i figured id post it. currently racing to finish the first the ace attorney games so my godot themed fic can be As Accurate As Possible but after that..... hoo doggy have i had a project ive been working on.
> 
> anyway!!! leave a comment, folks!!

Fitzroy was out on the stadium bleachers by the time Argo found him. He looked awful. To begin with, he was still very much hungover, with dark circles in his eyes and a visible headache in the look on his face. He looked like he might have been crying shortly before he arrived, with his glasses in his right hand and his eyes somewhat red. He was hunched over, knees curled into his chest, staring out at the empty field. His foot tapped repeatedly against the bleacher below him - he was very clearly still deeply engrained in his panic attack. 

Argo had never been the best with mental health things like this - usually when he dealt with these things, the response from his own family had been a well-intentioned, if perhaps misinformed, ‘buck up, boyo!’ and not much more than that. For that reason, he had little else to give him. He wished he’d asked the Firbolg to come - he’d know what to say. 

A little uneasy, Argo walked up the bleachers and sat beside Fitzroy, leaving about a foot between them. As soon as Fitzroy saw him he scrambled to put on his glasses, and stopped tapping his foot. He looked at him for a moment, and then turned his head forcefully back towards the field. 

“Hey there, uh, Fitzroy…” Argo began awkwardly, “Sorry if I was a little, uh… clueless back there. You’re right. I don’t understand it. What you’re going through, that is, with being sort of outed as… well, coming where you come from, after spending all this time trying to be… something else.” Fitzroy didn’t answer that. Uncomfortably Argo kept going, “Are you feeling all right? Back there you sort of… looked like you had a little bit of a panic attack, there.”  
Fitzroy huffed. “I… I…” He sighed. He had nothing clever or witty to say, and his shoulders slumped. “I did. Not a- not a good look, for me. Especially after… everything that’s already happened.”

“Well, nobody blames you for that!” Argo said rambunctiously, “I think all of us have had panic attacks after being told what we’ve done when we were drunk out of our heads!”  
Fitzroy didn’t laugh. He looked away. “Yeah, I guess.”

Argo swallowed. He began to feel the same way as he did the night before - the sense of calm that came with knowing there was no right answer, so he could pretty much try anything and watch it feel the same anyway. Fitzroy’s defenses were made of tissue paper right now - there’d be no preserving his feelings completely. But he had to say something.

“Listen, Fitzroy…” he began, “I can tell you don’t much care for talking but… if you’d let me, I’d like to… I’d like to make a few guesses at what you’re going through and you just - just correct me if I’m wrong, alright?”

He creased his eyebrows warily at that. “Alright?” he said carefully.

Argo sighed. “I think… that maybe… the folks at that-that Knight School of yours… maybe did a number on your self esteem. I look at you, and I think, someone, you know, someone must have taught you that you… you know, weren’t enough somehow, and I think you…  _ learned  _ to fit in there. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But I think maybe the way they… reacted to you has made it pretty rough to adjust to people who wouldn’t… go about treating you like that. And I think the reason you… are who you are now is the same reason you’re not all that fond of me. Cause I think those folks taught you it was a lower position to be… you know, raised with less around you.”

The end of this monologue was the first time where Fitzroy interrupted, perplexed. “Wh…” he said carefully, “I may have… my own baggage with the students from Clyde Knights Night Knight School, but I don’t… think any less of you, Argo, I apologize if I made you feel that way.”  
“Oh, but you talk to me different,” he said, but his tone was loving. “Hey, I don’t mind! You know, I’ve come to terms with my background, I love it, I’m proud of it! But you know, if I don’t have a certain… taste in food or I don’t wear a certain high-end clothier… well…” He thought about how to end that sentence. You’re disgusted with me? You look at me like I’m less than? There was no ending that wouldn’t damage him too severely for them to have any sort of productive conversation afterward, so he elected not to finish it at all.

Fitzroy gave him a long look. He was crestfallen. Slowly his eyes wandered from Argo’s face out to the stadium again, pieces coming together in his head. As they did, the grief in his face only doubled over and over itself. He ran a hand through his hair. Argo winced.

“Look, I- I’m doing a pretty shoddy job at this whole comforting thing, but my reason for coming out here was not to make you feel bad it was to tell you… Tell you that I do understand. That you’re not… stupid or shallow or anything for having these feelings about your accent having been revealed to the school, it’s a huge violation, I get it, I do! But I also want you to know that whatever you… see in your real self, this… thing you hate so much for whatever reason. Other people don’t see that. They just see Fitzroy, and, if I can speak for the public for a moment, they usually seem to like him.”  
“I…” Fitzroy said carefully. He sighed, looking out over the stadium. “You don’t… understand. If you dig through this- this- this version of me, I guess. You’re not gonna find anything. There’s no secret, early Fitzroy you can go and- and talk to and make friends with, no, I was… nothing. I was a nobody, without… skill or intelligence or anything to my name.” A guilty expression watched over his face. “I didn’t need to get… get pushed around or beat up at Knight School to take up the mannerisms they did. I just adjusted because… if you’re a nobody and you walk into a room full of somebodies and they all talk and dress different than you, you start getting some ideas about what it means to be a somebody.”

“Fitzroy,” Argo said sincerely, “Let me ask you something. Do you think I’m a nobody?”  
This startled him. “No, I didn’t - I didn’t say that, why would you think that’s what I was saying. This is about me, Argo, this- this has nothing to do with you, this is my own past.”

“Yes, but… You’re sitting here telling me that because your family wasn’t wealthy you were a nobody! What’s that say about me, and the Firbolg, and anyone, huh? What’s that say about you?”

“Yes, but you’re different, you’re-” he gestured vaguely with his hand, “You’re a rogue and you… eat limes, and you have a cool mustache and sail boats and stuff!”

“And you tell stories at parties and speak with a country accent, what’s the difference?!”

Fitzroy twitched at that, his volume suddenly raising. “The difference is, I’m not… like you, okay?!” He huffed, averting eye contact, “See, I knew you would do this, I knew you’d come here looking for ‘the real me’, or whatever. Well, you’re looking at him. Whoever I was is gone now, I traded him for something who’s interesting, with friends and magic and…  _ taste!  _ Why that’s not good enough for you people I’m not sure I’ll ever understand.”

Argo sighed sympathetically - he’d been too harsh, hadn’t he? “Listen, if you don’t want to talk with your accent, don’t talk with your accent. If you don’t want to give up all the fancy stuff, don’t give up all the fancy stuff. I’m not saying people don’t change, they do all the time. All I worry about is that, on the off-chance that there is a little pre-Knight School Fitzroy in that noggin of yours with his own way of doing things, and feelings, and memories seeing all of this… then it feels kind of unfair to me that fancy Fitzroy should get all the friends, don’t you think?” Fitzroy took a moment to consider this, a soft look appearing on his face as his anger faded. Argo went on slowly. “And if he is in there, and he does want a friend or two… I think I can speak for the Firbolg when I say we both have room in our hearts for just one more Fitzroy prototype. It’s like he told me to tell you. There’s no shame in this, he said to me before I left. He told me that there’s pride in talking like the people who brought you up, and he was sure that all your ancestors would be smiling on you for it.” He paused for a moment, as Fitzroy stared at his feet. “Okay?” he asked gently.

Fitzroy nodded. Argo patted him sternly on the back and said, “Come on back soon, boyo.” Then he got to his feet and left alone in the quiet of the morning. 


End file.
